The house was very still. Veronica Land explained that her mother had come to take the children away for a few days. The children did not yet know their father had been killed. She would have to tell them, she knew, but she wanted to be composed when she did, and she had not yet adjusted to the fact herself. She spoke in a low, controlled voice, but the tears sat just behind her eyes, waiting to be released, and the detectives picked through the conversation delicately and cautiously, not wanting to release the torrent. She sat very stiffly in an easy chair, carrying her unborn child like a huge medicine ball in her lap. She did not take her eyes from the detectives as they spoke. Carella had the feeling that every shred of her being was furiously concentrated on what they were saying. He had the feeling that she was clinging to the conversation for support, that if she once lost its thread she would burst into uncontrollable tears.
“How old was your husband, Mrs. Land?” Meyer asked.
“Thirty-one.”
“And he was a teacher at the university, is that right?”
“An instructor, yes. As assistant professor.”
“He commuted daily from Sands Spit?”
“Yes.”
“What time did he leave the house, Mrs. Land?”
“He caught the eight-seventeen each morning.”
“Do you own a car, Mrs. Land?”
“Yes.”
“But your husband took the train?”
“Yes. We have only one car, and I’m... well, as you can see, I’m going to have a baby. Herbie... Herbie felt I should have the car here. In case... well...”
“When is the baby due, Mrs. Land?” Carella asked.
“It’s supposed to come this month,” she answered. “Sometime this month.”
Carella nodded. The house went still again.
Meyer cleared his throat. “What time does the eight-seventeen reach the city, would you know, Mrs. Land?”
“Nine o’clock, I think. I know his first class was at nine-thirty, and he had to take a subway uptown from the terminal. I think the train got in at nine, yes.”
“And he taught philosophy?”
“He was in the philosophy department, yes. Actually he taught philosophy and ethics and logic and esthetics.”
“I see. Mrs. Land... did... uh... did your husband seem worried about anything? Did he mention anything that might have seemed...”
“Worried? What do you mean, worried?” Veronica Land said. “He was worried about his salary, which is six thousand dollars a year, and he was worried about our mortgage payments, and worried about the one car we have which is about to fall apart. What do you mean ‘worried’? I don’t know what you mean by ‘worried.’”
Meyer glanced at Carella. For a moment the tension in the room was unbearable. Veronica Land fought for control, clasped her hands in her lap just below the bulge of her stomach. She sighed heavily.
In a very low voice she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean by ‘worried,’“ but she had regained control, and the edge of hysteria was gone now. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, did... did he have any enemies that you know of?”
“None.”
“Any instructors at the university with whom he may have... well... argued... or... well, I don’t know. Any departmental difficulties?”
“No.”
“Had any one threatened him?”
“No.”
“His students perhaps? Had he talked about any difficulties with students? Had he failed anyone who might possibly have—”
“No.”
“—carried a grudge against—”
“Wait, yes.”
“What?” Carella said.
“Yes, he failed someone. But that was last semester.”
“Who?” Carella asked.
“A boy in his logic class.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. Barney... something. Just a minute. He was on the baseball team, and when Herbie failed him he wasn’t allowed to... Robinson, that was it. Barney Robinson.”
“Barney Robinson,” Carella repeated. “And you say he was on the baseball team?”
“Yes. They play in the spring semester, you know. That was when Herbie failed him. Last semester.”
“I see. Do you know why he failed him, Mrs. Land?”
“Why, yes. He... he wasn’t doing his work. Why else would Herbie have failed him?”
“And because he failed he wasn’t allowed to play on the team, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Did your husband seem to think Robinson was carrying any resentment?”
“I don’t know. You asked me if I could think of someone, and I just thought of this Robinson because... Herbie didn’t have any enemies, Mr. — what was your name?”
“Carella.”
“Mr. Carella, Herbie didn’t have any enemies. You didn’t know my husband so... so... you wouldn’t know what... what kind of a person he—”
She was about to lose control again. Quickly Carella said, “Did you even meet this Robinson?”
“No.”
“Then you wouldn’t know whether he was tall or short or—”
“No.”
“I see. And your husband discussed him with you, is that right?”
“He only told me he’d had to fail Barney Robinson, and that it meant the boy wouldn’t be able to... pitch, I think it was.”
“He’s a pitcher, is that right?”
“Yes.” She paused. “I think so. Yes. A pitcher.”
“That’s a very important person on a team, Mrs. Land. The pitcher.”
“Is he?”
“Yes. So there’s the possibility that, in addition to Robinson himself, any number of students could have been resentful of your husband’s actions. Isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know. He never mentioned it except that once.”
“Did any of his colleagues ever mention it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Did you know any of his colleagues socially?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But they never mentioned Barney Robinson or the fact that your husband had failed him?”
“Never.”
“Not even jokingly?”
“Not at all.”
“Had your husband ever received any threatening letters, Mrs. Land?”
“No.”
“Calls?”
“No.”
“But yet you thought of Robinson instantly when we asked if anyone might have a grudge against your husband.”
“Yes. I think it troubled Herbie. Having to fail him, I mean.”
“Did he say it troubled him?”
“No. But I know my own husband. He wouldn’t have mentioned it if it wasn’t troubling him.”
“But he told you about it after he’d failed the boy?”
“Yes.”
“How old is Robinson, do you know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you have any idea what class he was in?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, would he have graduated already? Or is he still at the school?”
“I don’t know.”
“All you know, then, is that your husband failed a boy named Barney Robinson, a baseball player in his logic class.”
“Yes, that’s all I know,” Veronica said.
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Land. We appreciate—”
“And I know my husband is dead,” Veronica Land said tonelessly. “I know that, too.”
The university buildings rose in scholastic splendor in the midst of squalor, a tribute to the vagaries of city development. Those many years back, when the university was planned and executed, the surrounding neighborhood was one of the best in the city, containing several small parks, and rows of dignified brownstones, and apartment buildings with doormen. A slum grows because it has to have someplace to go. In this case, it grew toward the university, and around the university, ringing it with poverty and contained hostility. The university remained an island of culture and learning, its green grass providing a moat that defied further encroachment. Student and professor alike came out of the subway each morning and walked book-laden through a neighborhood where The Razor’s Edge was not a novel by Somerset Maugham but a fact of life. Oddly, there were few incidents between the people of the neighborhood and the university people. Once a student was mugged on his way to the subway, and once a young girl was almost raped, but a sort of undeclared truce existed, a laissez faire attitude that enabled citizen and scholar to pursue separate lives with a minimum of interference.